


You're the Only One for Me

by MysticKitten42



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Dark, Grief/Mourning, HP My Bloody Valentine 2021, Haunting, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Non-Linear Narrative, Regret, Secret Relationship, Unfinished Business, Unhappy Ending, Valentine's Day, rendezvous, very brief mention of cuts (self harm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29492673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysticKitten42/pseuds/MysticKitten42
Summary: After all these years, Draco's still the one.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 17
Kudos: 80
Collections: My Bloody Valentine 2021





	You're the Only One for Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a dark piece for a dark fest. Please read the tags first, and if there’s anything that triggers then please don’t read. Otherwise, consume with care 😘 
> 
> Thanks to OllieMaye for the beta, and to Writcraft for hosting the fest.

Draco pants and writhes beneath Harry, his arms casually folded behind his head, his long platinum hair fanned out over the pillow. He practically glows against Harry’s dark bedspread. A bead of sweat forms at his brow, his cheeks are deliciously flushed, and his eyes, blown with arousal, stare into Harry’s. He parts his plump lips and Harry can’t help but lean down to kiss him, give him a quick swipe of tongue, as he sets into a pounding rhythm. 

When Draco unfolds his arms, Harry catches a glimpse of the Dark Mark, crosscut by old scars… and a row of fresh cuts. He’s about to say something, ask him about it, but Draco wraps his arms and legs around Harry and pulls him closer.

“Harder,” he gasps. “Harry… I need more.”

Harry obliges, moving faster, deeper, feeling the pleasure build towards a crescendo. Draco scrapes his nails across Harry’s back, and the pain pulls him over the edge just as much as the tight clench of Draco’s arse as he comes.

Harry collapses beside him. “So good, Draco. You’re always so good for me,” he pants and casts a wandless Cleaning Charm over them. He tugs Draco closer and kisses him. “I could get lost inside you forever.”

Draco pulls back, and the look on his face is one Harry’s never seen before. “Do you really mean that?”

Harry, still breathless and overcome from the rush of orgasm, nods.

Draco stares at him for a moment. “Then meet me tomorrow. At our spot. 7 pm.”

Harry blinks in surprise. “You want to meet there? On Valentine’s Day? At night?”

“I do.”

Harry props himself up on one elbow. “It’ll be bloody freezing.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Cast a Warming Charm. Or have you forgotten you’re a wizard? It’ll be perfect. I promise.”

Harry runs his fingers through Draco’s hair, tucks a damp strand behind his ear. He nods. “All right. But I expect to come back here afterwards to warm up.”

Draco smirks, then pushes Harry back down on the bed—Harry can already feel himself hardening again—and straddles him. “Oh, I’ll warm you up all right.” Draco sinks down onto Harry’s cock, and Harry watches in awe as he works himself up and down, agonisingly slow. Draco throws his head back and Harry, unable to keep his hands to himself any longer, grabs Draco’s hips and thrusts up.

* * *

Harry examines himself in the mirror. He runs his fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to smooth it down. He’s wearing his green suit, the one that brings out his eyes, freshly laundered and immaculately pressed. It fits a little more snugly than he’d like, and he frowns at the dark circles under his eyes, but overall, he cleans up nicely. He fastens his cufflinks—silver dragons—and knots the tie carefully at his throat.

Harry casts _Tempus_ ; it’s 6:30 pm. He pulls on his winter cloak, picks up the bouquet of Narcissus, and the gold heart-shaped box of dark Belgian chocolates with salted caramel centres. After a quick _Reducio_ , he carefully slips them into his pocket. With a final wistful glance in the mirror, he Disapparates.

At the Apparition Point, he casts _Homenum Revelio_ to ensure he’s alone—one can never be too careful where the _Daily Prophet_ is concerned. The journey to the cliff’s edge doesn’t take long. He’s been to this spot countless times; it’s where he first found Draco, brooding after the war. It’s where they shook hands, became friends, and then more. The wind blows through Harry’s cloak and tousles his hair. His teeth chatter, but he doesn’t cast a Warming Charm. Because he doesn’t deserve it.

When he reaches their place, he looks out over the sea. The waves are white-capped in the wind; the moon, nearly full, is reflected in the ripples below. Harry casts another _Tempus_. He’s early, but it’s nearly time. The butterflies grow in his stomach but become overshadowed by something darker, something not so sweet.

The temperature noticeably drops with Draco’s arrival. He’s flawlessly punctual, just like always. Pale. Perfect. Shimmering in the moonlight he saunters, slightly nervous, not with his usual swagger, up to where Harry stands. Harry looks at him long and hard, and swallows. Draco takes his breath away. Every time. He’s beautiful, with his long hair pulled back and plaited, his suit, once a brilliant midnight blue, now gossamer-like in shades of muted charcoal.

Harry watches his lips move, and although he can’t hear him, he knows exactly what he’s saying. He remembers it like it was yesterday.

_“Harry, this place is very special to me for many reasons.”_

Harry nods.

_“I’ve never told you this, but Father used to come here with my mother. It’s where he proposed to her.”_

“That’s lovely,” Harry says, his voice barely a whisper over his chattering teeth.

_“It’s where they promised to love and cherish one another until parted by death. They held onto that promise, through the good and the bad.”_

Draco looks at Harry, and Harry looks back into his dark, dark eyes.

_“I love you, Harry.”_

“I love you too.”

Draco pulls a box from his suit pocket. When he opens it, a platinum band, engraved with the Malfoy family crest, glints in the moonlight.

_“Harry Potter, would you do me the great honour of becoming my husband?”_

Tears form in Harry’s eyes as he looks at Draco, his beautiful Draco.

“Of course I’ll marry you. There’s nothing I want more. I love you so much.”

Draco recoils as if stung. Because that’s not what Harry said the first time. When it really mattered. When it would have made a difference. Bile rises in Harry’s throat as his words replay in his head, a bitter refrain. 

_“We can’t get married, Draco. What would people say if they knew? The Saviour with a Death Eater? This can only ever be between us. You understand that, don’t you?”_

For a moment Draco looks like a kicked puppy, but then his face hardens into a defiant sneer. His lips move, and Harry knows all too well what he’s saying.

_“I see. I guess we’re done here, Potter.”_

The use of his last name stings.

_“You should go.”_

_“Draco, I–”_

Draco’s translucent face illuminates with the light from Ron’s Patronus. Harry doesn’t even remember what the case was about, just Ron’s urgent plea for backup.

_“Go on, Saviour. Go save the world. Again.”_

Harry, not knowing what else to say, did as he was told. He turned and left.

He should have stayed. He should have tried harder to explain.

Harry looks at Draco and a lump forms in his throat. The sneer falls from Draco’s face and he seems so vulnerable. Alone. Defeated. His parents, fresh in their graves; his friendships, each one severed; countless applications, all rejected. Door after door closing in his face. And then another one…

Harry steps forward and cups Draco’s face. Tears stream down Harry’s cheeks, numbed by the wind. “I’m so sorry. I was such a coward. If I could take it all back…”

But he can’t take it back. He doesn’t even know how many nights he’s stayed up into the wee hours, wishing for a Time-Turner, with Ogden’s as his only company.

Harry studies and memorises Draco’s face, his sharp angles softened by his diaphanous form. He wishes he could touch him for real, feel his porcelain skin, thread his fingers through his silky hair. Instead, he settles for the cold radiating from Draco, permeating through his fingers, reacting with his magic to make him feel the most alive he’s felt all year.

He could do this all night. Forever. But he knows there’s not much time left. There’s never enough time. He brushes his fingers along Draco’s icy features once more and exhales slowly, his breath crackling in the cold air between them. When Draco’s expression goes blank and he turns, Harry closes his eyes and slowly counts to twenty. In all the years he’s been coming up here, he’s not once been able to watch what happens next.

* * *

Harry’s not surprised when Draco avoids him. Whenever they fight, he always needs time to lick his wounds. He knows they’ll talk and make up. Eventually. They’ve always been drawn to each other, two magnets that attract and repel.

He is surprised the following Monday, when he stops by Draco’s work—a shady apothecary in Knockturn Alley, the only place willing to hire a reformed Death Eater (to prepare ingredients, not to brew)—and finds out that Draco hasn’t been to work in over a week. Harry knows how much that job means to him. With an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, he Apparates to Draco’s flat. But he’s not there.

The next day, Robards calls him down to the DMLE basement, to the morgue. Draco’s body washed ashore that morning, far too late to get a magical signature. Draco had listed Harry as his next of kin, so he’s called in to identify the body.

Harry nods, _it’s him_ , then staggers backwards, banging his knee against a chair. He vomits into the bin. Twice. Robards gives him the rest of the week off.

The papers find out anyway. Speculation about the Chosen One’s sordid affair with a Death Eater makes the front pages of the _Daily Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly_.

But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore. Not without Draco.

* * *

… eighteen… nineteen… twenty. 

When Harry opens his eyes, he’s alone again. The wind ruffles his hair, but it’s not as cold. He steps forward, takes another step, and another until he’s at the cliff’s edge. He keeps his eyes aimed forward, looks straight at the horizon, at the moonlight reflected in the waves. He doesn’t look down. He never looks down.

“Draco,” Harry says, his voice whipped away by the wind. “You’re the only one for me.” He gnaws at his lip. “When you died, a part of me died too.”

He reaches into his pocket, and with a nonverbal spell restores his gifts to their proper size. “I brought you some flowers, and those chocolates you like so much.” His voice only wavers slightly. He holds them out, then lets them slip through his fingers into the darkness below, just like Draco all those years ago. The wind and the waves are loud; he doesn’t hear them land.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love.”

Harry closes his eyes. Carefully balanced on the precipice, he feels how precarious life is, the thin line between living and dying.

With a shaky breath, he takes a step back. And then another. Before he turns to leave, he says,

“I’ll see you again next year.” 


End file.
